VICTOR MOREDANT; OR, THE LOST SHIPS.

Clutha Leader, Volume I, Issue 10, 10 September 1874, Page 3

VICTOR MOREDANT; OR, THE LOST SHIPS.

A TALE QF FIFTY TEARS AGO

CHAP. 111.

THE LABT OP THE CYNTHIA — THB FATE OP THE SURVIVORS — JULIA HARDINAGECONCEIVEB A DARING SCHEME, AND ENTERS ON ITS EXECUTION. Julia Hardinage sat in the closelypacked boat in a dull, bewildered stupor. She seemed to herself to be in the midst of a horrible and awful dream) confusedly and imperfectly conscious of passing through dread scenes of terror and catastrophe, which she could not realise. The suddenness of the calamity, its frightful character, the fiendish struggle on deck, the perishing of Olive before her face, her own descent into the boat, and its drifting passage over the swelling waves — kept whirling through her brain like a wild phantasmagoria, the incidents of which appeared too impossible to be true. This state of mind continued for many minutes after they had left the ship, which could now be seen from -the boat in all its conflagrated sublimity. Those in charge of the boat had drawn off sufficiently far to be beyond the reach of danger, and there they remained to witness, with shuddering and bursting hearts, the finaf issue. Anything more appalling than the spectacle presented to them could not ■be conceived. The whole of the forepart pf the vessel was now enveloped in fire, land the flames shot high into the air with a brilliance which illuminated the sea to a far distance ; while every momen t the ruthless and destroying element spread aft towards the hinderpart, where, in the highest and remotest portions of the deck, were congregated those who had been left on board, and for whom do escape was possible. Poor wretches, they had retreated to the furthest point from where the devouring element raged, though they knew by this time their doom was certain, and that to scramble there was but to prolong the agony of life a few moments longer. The frantic struggle for escape had merged in a still more frantic despair when the boats were cast off, and the knowledge given that all hope was ended. Many yelled forth curses and blasphemy, others wailed and shrieked for mercy, while a few, becoming «ilent and motionless before the inevitable, calmly sent a prayer to heaven for pardon and acceptance and leapt into the sea to find there a less painful exist from that earthly existence which could be theirs no longer. Most of them, however, under the instinctive love of life which remains oven after all hope has gone, clambered, as we have said, to the poop, there to linger to the very last possible moment, though such a prolongation was but intensifying and increasing the agony of their fate. They saw the flames coming towards them with a swift progression which no human power could stay, and knew that in a minute or two the planks on which they stood, the spars to which they clung, would be in a blaze. Every moment the heat grew more intense, till its fierceness overcame the desire to live ; and with a wild cry they dropped into the equallyruthless but more painless waves,, who •did the work of death more gently than the fire, and gave their souls a more peaceful passage to the eternal world. Thus one by one as tbe flames spread aft the poor creatures plunged over the side, and the group on deck grew -less and less, till but a very, few remained, the expression of whose faces, which was distinctly revealed in the lurid glare, was something never to be forgotten by those in the boats, who shudderingly gazed at them. Some, indeed, were sublimely calm, showing such heavenly serenity as we are told tbe martyrs exhibited at the stake, and stood with clasped hands and eyes raised to the heaven which they humbly hoped soon to enter. But others, alas '! were not so patiently resigned, and their countenances were terrible to look at.

The captain's form was conspicuous among this miserable remnant. He had steadily refused to quit the vessel, though urged and implored to do so by those of the officers and crew who escaped in the boats. With heroic devotion he intimated his resolution to stick by his vessel and share her fate ; and there he stood, one of the calmest of the calm, watching the work of destruction, which was now nearly completed. He waited, however, only that he might be the very last to go. Already tbe flames were rising on every side, and in twos and threes the remaining survivors leapt into the waves, till he, seeing the last form vanish, waved his hand as a farewell to those in the boats, and, with a firm leap forward, he also disappeared.

One of the boats, whioh had remained dangerously near the ship for the purpose, tried to approach at this moment in the hope of picking him up ; but the heat was so intense and scorching that it could not oome near. With a deep groan the first mate, who had charge of it, ceased the attempt, and the gallant captain of the Cynthia perished with die rest.

The fire had now lull possession of the after part of the vessel. The flames poured from the cabin windows and ran up the remaining spars ; the bulwarks and the poop itself were wrapt in their fatal embrace, till speedily they were giving forth an illumination of dazzling brightness. This was at its very

strongest, when suddenly the whole mass lurched forward, and down sunk the hull with, -a loud hiss, quenching the dazzling light almost in a moment, arid causing a great shock of darkness, which the contrast made horrible beyond all experience. Thus progressed tod ended one of the tremendous tragedies of ocean. One brief hour or two had evolved and finished it. As good and gallant a ship as ever breasted the waves, with as valuable a cargo as ever left the shores of India, had become with mysterious swiftness the prey of the fiercest element of nature ; and after the flames had in fury devoured all they could reach, the^ heaving deep, as greedy and relentless,* had swallowed tip the charred remains and given a sepulchre to many human beings, who shall there remain till the solemn hour when the sea shall give up its dead.

Till the end had come and the curtain fell like a pall of gloom the occupants of the two boats had gazed with a dread ■fascination of shuddering anguish on the scene ; hut now that all was over they began to realise the serious nature of their own position. In open boats, amid the boundless ocean, surrounded bj midnight darkness, and on the swelling billows of a wind-tossed sea — that position was dreary in the extreme. Perchance they had escaped from the ship only to be engulphed at a later period : or, what was a worse fate still, to die of hunger, for in the haste in which their embarkation was effected very few provisions and but a small supply of water had been secured. Days might elapse ere a vessel came in sight to pick them up, in which case their sufferings would be excruciating, and such as would cause them to envy the fate of those whe had perished from the ship. Gloomy as their prospect was, it behoved them to do the best they could for their safety, and await the result, whatever that might be. While darkness lasted they could but keep before the wind and as near to each other as possible ; when daylight came they would be better able to decide what course to follow. The boat in which Julia sat was the largest of the two, aiid was filled from stem to stern, its occupants being wedged together in a compact mass, the weight of which sank it down nearly to the water's edge. Every few minutes a sea broke over their already drenched bodies, and. each as it came threatened to swamp them, and evoked renewed cries of terror and despair, in addition to the sounds of lamentation, mourning, aud woe which broke from many of their bursting hearts when they thought of the friends and relatives they had lost. It was pitiable — oh, most pitiable and heartrending — to hear the children cry for their dead parents, and wives for husbands who had been torn from them. In the bitterness of their bereavement they were tempted to wish that they had not been rescued, but had sunk with those whose death made their lives henceforth desolate; and oneuoor woman, who sat near to Julia, under the influence apparently of a grief akin to madness, strove more than once to throw herself into the sea, and so end her misery, but strong arms restrained her, till she sunk into insensibility, and for a time her woes were buried in oblivion.

Meanwhile Julia sat still and silent, her brain slowly recovering from the stupor which had come upon it, and her -thoughts beginning to survey in something like orderly sequence the changed circumstances which the death of Olive had produced. Recalling, as she tried to do, the terrific scene in its various features, she was led back to the conversation in which she and Olive had been engaged previous to the moment when the fire was discovered. v How one 'short hour had altered all that future which had formed the subject of their talk. Poor Olive had been delivered from the position which she felt to be so painful with respect to Victor Moredant, who would now heir the whole of what 'had been meant for them both, and be at the same time free to wed whomsoever he chose. This instantly raised the thought in her mind of how the death of Olive would affect herself; and with a terrible sinking of heart she Tealised the fact that it had made her destitute. There had been no provision "made for her in Mr. Moredant's will, the verbal arrangement being that she was to remain with Olive and her husband until perchance she married herself when a moderate dowry would be given her. This was an arrangement which entirely satisified Julia, for she knew that Olive would carry it out, most faithfully and f onerously ; but her cousin's unexpected eath changed her position entirely, and left her without a friend and without resource. On Victor Moredant she had no claim, and she had no right to expect that he would accept the duties of her care and maintenance. Nay, she had -now no proper right to go to Beechwood at alt She was a stranger there, and no tie of blood or kindred existed to unite them in even the most slender manner. There was no other prospect for her than earning her own livelihood, and she knew enough of the world to be aware that this meant poverty, obscurity, and privation. To Julia Hardinage this prospect was extremely revolting. Her Selfish nature rebelled against it, and her spirit rose in bitter qomplaint against a fate so hard and unendurable.

"They talk of a wise over-ruling

Providence," she murmured. " I can't believe it istrue, else I had been the one to perish, and Olive the one to escape. For her life had pleasure, wealth, and rank in store, while I am poor and dependent. Why, then, was I preserved, who had nothing to live for, while she, who had all these at her command, was swept away ? No, a wise Providence would have ordered the matter otherwise."

| She brooded over her changed position so deeply as to lose nearly all consciousness of the present untoward situation, with its peril and uncertainty. The stormy sea, the heaving boat, the cold, the darkness, the moans and lamentations of her companions, were all unheeded by her as her mind dwelt on these other things, involving her personal earthly interests. And the more she brooded, the more bitter grew her regrets and repining ; till she cast about in her active min<J for some means of escape. Could nothing be divised ? she asked herself, and as she did so the desire to escape the toil and obscurity of the lot which threatened her was so strong that she confessed herself ready to resort to any stratagem by which it might be avoided. Then it came — came like a flash of lurid brightness, and so suddenly, and without any groping that it must have been the evil one himself who put the suggestion into her mind. The moment before it came there had not been the slightest premonition of it ; now — in another instant she had it fully and entirely before her, and that so vividly that it caused her frame to give a violent start, and her heart to bound with a great rush.

At the very first view of it she knew ifc was feasible and easy of accomplishment. ' Every thing conspired to make it so. All the circumstances favoured it ; a little boldness, courage, skill, and tact, which she despaired not of possessing, and being able to manifest, were all that was necessary to carry the idea triumphantly out.

A feftling of exultant joy rushed through her soul. The gloomy prospect had vanished. A glorious view, such as she had never dreamed of, opened up to her delighted gaze, and so surely did she count on its realisation that her viens throbbed with the swellings of her gladness, and could her face have heen seen through the darkness the flash of her coal black eves and the

flush upon her swarthy cheek would have betrayed the strong passion working within. The idea which had come so suddenly and had received such a welcome from her was — that she should personate her cousin, Olive Moredant.

Such a bold and daring- thing- could have occured only to an ambitious strong-willed girl, and its serious contemplation even when suggested to her mind would have been entertained only by one who was self-confidant and selfreliant. Julia Hardinage was just such a girl, as we might have discovered by ber conversation with Olive on the deck of the ill-fated Cynthia. She was not much troubled with maidenly basbful-ne-*s or modesty. She was intensely selfish, and selfish people are more or less unscrupulous. She had little difficulty, therefore, about the morality of the cleception'she meditated practising^ her only concern was about its feasibility, and this was so great that she made up her mind almost at once to play the brilliant game. She saw -at a glance how. easy it would be to personate Olive Moredant. The persons of the two girls were not known to any one in Europe, for, these not being thp days of photography and cartes -dc visite, their portraits had^ not preceded them. Neither had Olive corresponded in any way with Victor Moredant or his father, so that her hand writing was unknown to them. Her own physical appearance, therefore, could give them no ground of suspicion, and every other circumstance was favourable to her design. Her full and intimate knowledge of the affairs of Olive and her father made it an easy matter ior her to talk to the inmates of Beechwood as Olive wonld have talked. Then, fortunately for her, the two girls had kept themselves so retired and isolated during the voyage that no acquaintance had beeu formed between them and any of the passengers, to : whom they were known only as Indian girls — sisters or cousins — who had lost their relatives in the East, and were going to their relatives in Europe. The few survivors, therefore, who would reach Europe along with her would not doubt her statement that it was Julia Hardinage who had perished. There, were, indeed, a few people in India who had known Olive and herself, but chance of detection from this cause was so remote and improbable as not to become a feather's weight in her calculations. The temptation to commit the deception was very strong. The advantage to be-grained by it was wealth, rank, luxury, and social influence, . She would marry Victor Moredant, and become the mistress of Beechwood, receiving all the pleasures and privileges of such a position. Was this not a prize worth aiming for, and escape by it from the poverty and obscurity which must otherwise be her lot ? (To be continued.) Golden Fleeces —Not fn from Caucasus are certain falling torrents, which wash down many grains of gold, as in many other parts of the world ; and the people there inhabiting, used to set many fleeces of wool in those descents of waters, in which the grains of gold remain.